breathe, breathe
by hyperphonic
Summary: His hands are so stained red that to scrub them clean would be to shed his skin. vignette collection/unbeta'd/ratings may vary
1. I

**well**: i had, originally, intended on carrying this over into the morning after. but i feel like the mood shift would have been too great, and that it had reached a fairly natural conclusion as is. that doesn't mean, however, that i wont still write it and put it up sometime later.

* * *

The night of Hughes' funeral, Roy comes home with her. Around them, the sun has already begun it's lazy descent past the cold buildings; Riza thinks the stark, scarlet light seems to reflect their grim countenance all too well. The very same light spills into her foyer along with them, flooding through her windows and across the floor. (Roy tries his best not to think of blood smeared into cobblestones)

"Riza." His voice is rough and more than a little shaken as they stand in her foyer, starched suits turned a muddy brown in the too-red sunset. "Yeah?" The blonde moves in close and works one hand under the thick, black wool of his jacket. Her palm is gentle and practiced as it begins to rub his back, heedless of the damp heat trapped there. For once, Roy Mustang is at a loss for words, standing bowed against the weight of the world in his Lieutenant's apartment. (Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice reminds that she is so much more than that, but the thought is banished when she begins to pull his coat away.)

"Let's get you cleaned up," she whisper-chokes into his lapel, and it is then that the Colonel notices that she's pulled her hand away from his knotted muscles. "Yeah, alright," he rumbles, even though he spent at least two hours prior to the wake furiously scrubbing invisible blood off his hands (Riza probably knows that, though).

And she does, painfully so. He can tell by the way she kisses his palms, neatly perched on the counter of her small bathroom, stark burns and alchamic symbols displayed in the mirror behind her. Their romance has never been one of words and heartfelt confessions; and in moments like this it is no different. Theirs is one of soft touches and barely there glances, quiet consolence and the reassurance that even if it's dark, they can still _feel. _

Roy feels rather acutely when she pulls him into the too hot shower; he doesn't complain though, not when her lips are so soft against his own, and her heart beating so strongly against his chest. (They're both alive, and lately that seems to be a bit of an achievement.) The kiss breaks, and Riza watches him for a long moment, eyelashes clumping together in the moist air, before reaching past his shoulder to snatch the shampoo. "Let's sit."

So they do, her back against the tiled wall, and his back against her chest, head tilted limply as she works the thick soap through dark hair. Roy wants to tell her he loves her, wants to sigh the confession into the damp air and press it into the hollow beneath her collarbone- But every time he goes to start, he thinks of cobblestones and rain and he can't. (He can't begin to think that someday the woman who holds him now could be another smear against the brickwork.)

"Breathe," she murmurs, lips pressing soft against his temple.

Her hair is still damp when they stumble into bed, the long blonde locks beading with water against her chest. This close, he can smell her quite distinctly, and the bright, clean scent helps to ease the weight off his chest. Lean arms pull him in and guide his head to tuck against her neck, slowly stroking down until she's cupping his neck and holding his ribs and maybe just gluing him together because he feels like falling apart- "Roy," she breathes again and this time his chest expands too.


	2. II

**because**: clearly i'm a little hung up on how hughes' death could effect their dynamic~

**by the way**: as with all my other vignette collections; if you've got a prompt, i'd love to take it either as a review here or an ask to my tumblr, _h__yperphonic_

* * *

Words of comfort have never really been Riza's forte. The blonde Lieutenant wishes she were a little more skilled in the art though, when she catches her Colonel stalled out at his desk. Pen suspended above the paper, the dark man stares blankly at the grain of his desk, warm red hues muted in the watery October light. A quick glance about the office proves them alone, and Riza is quick to close the distance, thighs brushing against polished wood as she leans over the desk to take a gentle hold of his wrists.

"Roy." Her voice is soft, almost lost under the drum of rain outside. But he hears her none the less, and looks up with dull eyes.

"Six months," he offers by way of explanation, thick throat struggling not to choke on the words. "Six months since Hugh-" "I know." Of course she does, _everyone_ does. Team Mustang stands as a squad united, shoulders strong against the weight of their Colonels grief; regardless of how attached they were on a personal level.

Across from him, Riza's face looks sallow, the natural flush of her cheeks negated by the grey green light dimly filtering through the window at his back. The pen in his hand is dropped, abandoned in favor of cupping her cheek, aware of the fact that they were breaking at least seven different fraternization laws right now- but it is worth it when he leans out of his rigid chair to kiss her. Worth it all the more when long fingers tangle with his against her cheek. And when they slowly pull apart, he thinks his shoulders feel just a little lighter.

"I don't think I brought an umbrella with me this morn-," she murmurs, already pulling away from his hold, "I'll walk you home," Roy offers, snatching the offered out like a lifeline. A wry little smile sets up on his face even as she turns back to her own paperwork, neatly crossed ankles setting next to her favorite black umbrella.

Six months and the old bastard hadn't even stopped by to metaphysically nag him about proposing. He was _sure_ it would have happened by now.


	3. III

**sorry: **for the corrupted chapter post, if anyone saw it it. it seems the site and i are having a bit of a lovers quarrel.

**additionally: **i apologize for the unanswered prompts sitting in my inbox, and general lack of updates, it turns out that designing makeup for a production, graduating school and rehearsaing for two different shows is a little bit of a time commitment. who'd have thought?

* * *

It takes Roy a while to adjust to being blind. For someone who saw such fantastically bright things, the sudden veil he finds drawn over his senses is deeply unsettling. At first, it seems as if his voice was stolen along with his sight, vocal chords laying dormant as he sat in his bed and looked out at nothing. If he can't see, why should he speak? It's not as if his voice alone will change anything.

(But Riza thinks differently, and gradually, her steady presence begins to coax Roy out of the darkness.)

* * *

Logically speaking, the fact that Riza is by his side nearly constantly shouldn't be a surprise to the Colonel, but somehow it is. They'd shared a bed countless times before; it shouldn't be any different _now_. Right?

And yet he feels infinitely more vulnerable as her hands slide across his shoulders, gently coaxing the knots from his muscles. With the absence of sight, things like scent and sound have become exponentially more important; the gentle heat that radiates off of her and into him carries comfort and the smell of cordite, worming close against his heart.

* * *

Roy thinks he'll always be able to remember the first time they fucked after he'd lost his sight. Sensory deprivation had heightened his other senses to the point that every brush of Riza's long blonde hair against his chest had him trembling. It was desperate and scared and he was so glad it was with her, because she loved him and he knew that he'd be able to count on her steady heat beside him in the morning.

Slowly though, he begins to learn her body by touch alone, and by the time he's been in the dark a week it's almost as if this is how they've always been. And when he lays back on the mattress; her hot weight feels like home above him, riding slowly and smoothly and coaxing a "_yeah just like that-_" from his rough throat. He can feel her smile and wonders if her cheeks are flushed that pretty pink she sometimes wears.

He knows his are as she melts against his chest, toes curled and nose hidden deep in the crook of his neck. Scarred hands trace up her inked back, and the blind man finds himself surreptitiously tracing the intricate circles and runes. (Her perfume wreaths all around him and he can't fight the smile that pushes past his lips.)

* * *

In the dark he's grown accustomed to, the quiet peal of her laughter becomes a beacon, the one kind of light he can tangibly feel. They're sitting together on the front steps, shoulders brushing as the street bustles around them. It is springtime in central, and the tremulous breeze carries the smell of damp earth and new growth. In his head, at least, Roy can see Riza perfectly; long blonde hair luffing in the breeze to brush against his neck, pale skin flushed slightly because she's not missed the way he still clings to her hand. (He wishes he could see her for real, and watch the sun play across the bridge of her almost-freckled nose.)

"Doctor Knox wants to see you," she hums, idly tightening her fingers around his calloused palm. It's an odd statement, considering that the last time he'd seen the doctor, the crotchety man had ordered him to "take his sideshow of circus freak patients and go."

"Does he really?" The sightless man returns, chin tilting in her direction. He can _feel _Riza's smile as she laughs, fondly remembering their less than honorable discharge from the veterans' house.

The breeze picks up a bit and suddenly there's a chill in the air as a cirrus steals the sun. "So he says," and perhaps they were closer than he'd originally thought, as when she next speaks, he can feel her breath against his chin.

"He said he wanted to talk with you," Hawkeye finishes, the weight of her words not lost in their soft delivery. The sun returns to spill across his face, and Roy wonders if maybe the trees are beginning to bud as he leans in to kiss his Lieutenant.

(There is hope yet.)

* * *

When his sight is restored, the first thing Roy notices is that her nose has, in fact, gained a dusting of freckles, and that her cheeks are damp with tears as their gaze locks. "Have I missed a rain shower, Lieutenant?" (He fervently hopes that the dry snark in his words will cover the way his throat feels almost too tight to speak.)

Riza just smiles, the brightness of her face nearly enough to blind her Colonel again. "Yes, sir, it just blew through." (Wit has failed him, he can tell by the way she brushes her thumbs over his cheekbones, lion-eyes soft as they study each other.)

A memory of a very different Roy Mustang is cauterized into his mind's eye; standing before a gravestone with rain on his cheeks. The Colonel is infinitely glad that this time it is a spring shower instead of a cold, autumn typhoon.

* * *

That night, as they lay tangled in the sheets, Roy feels his own cheeks dampen slightly. Riza is warm in his arms, golden hair spilling across his shoulders and the off white of the bed spread, fighting hard to keep her eyes open. "I forgot the color of your hair," he mumbles offhandedly, shaky palms sliding up to gently cup the base of her skull.

"I knew it was gold, but I couldn't remember the way it glows under the sun, or how it looked against your skin." He stops to breathe, slanted eyes closing as he fought past the lump in his throat. Beside him, his lover sheds the sleep from her eyes with a slow inhalation.

"And your lips," he kisses them lightly for emphasis, "I forgot their exact shade of pink."

She's shifting in his arms, sending the fall of hair across his chest as thin hands come up to cradle his face. "Oh, Roy," her voice is soft, like the way her eyes crinkle when she catches him studying her face.

Roy leans into her touch, brows drawing down and together as he searches for words. "I never want to forget _any_ of you again, not your lips or your eyes or the way you say my name." He is clinging to her now, fierce and hot and so much like the fire he commands, "I don't want to miss the way your arms flex when we're training or how your face changes when you focus down the barrel." He takes a quick, shaky inhale, "I don't want to forget _you._"

It is a fierce declaration, made on bright eyes and sealed with a kiss so ardent it almost hurts; but when they part, Roy knows that she understands, and that makes all the difference.


	4. IV

**prompt**: "high school AU where Roy and Riza are the teachers always flirting in the break room and/or in their own classes which makes the students really uncomfortable"

**notes**: oh sweet baby jesus I had way too much fun writing this. Though, as prompts usually do with me, it got a little out of hand and ended up a college au, I apologize.

**ps**: I want to continue this au like 100% because as I was writing this I was totally reminded of sbny and all the student discomfort caused in that fic. professor mustang will definitely be back.

**got a prompt**?: shoot it to my tumblr, _hyperphonic_, I'm more than happy to take 'em!

* * *

The break room at Central was unfairly small. The college was the leading force in scientific studies, couldn't they afford a slightly bigger faculty room? _Maybe that way_, one slightly flustered (though artfully hiding it) Riza Hawkeye fumed, _Professor Mustang would fuck off_.

As it were though, the dark man was languishing beside her, long frame taking up nearly all of the cramped kitchenette as he impeded her process. Briefly, the Statistics Professor wondered if nailing him in the solar plexus would get him the hell out of her way. (Ultimately, she decided it wouldn't, the damned man had been flouncing after her since high school. He'd been on the receiving end of her jabs before.)

"So," came the smooth drawl of said professor, artfully arranged against the counter of the break room. "I happen to know that you have a free period this afternoon, Miss Hawkeye." Dark eyes suggestively fell across her slim frame, making his intent all too clear to any faculty present (which was more or less the whole teaching staff). "And," the man continued suavely, "I happen to know of at least _one_ abandoned janitorial closet." The fact of the matter was that, janitorial closets aside, the two had been dancing around each other for years, and Mustang was only getting more persistent by the day.

(Plus, neither of them had forgotten the warm summer days spent together between high school and college. And they both knew it.)

A chorus of mock retching and catcalls followed the bold move, much to the Professors chagrin. "Well, Sir," Riza responded, reflexively picking up her notes in one hand and cup of appallingly black coffee in the other, "unlike _some_ professors, I actually use my free period to prepare for the next class." And she was off, long legs catching the bright May sun as she made for the door.

"However, Professor," Riza paused in the doorway, a sharp smirk pulling across glossed lips, "my last class is at two today." The smirk turned into a saucy grin, and Riza was gone in a flurry of blonde hair and _was that a wink?_

Roy could hardly believe his knees hadn't given out.

"Well Mustang," Breda, another professor, grinned, "looks like your students aren't going to learn jack today."

As much as he would have loved to protest the statement, Roy knew as well as the next that Breda was completely right.

* * *

The next day, as one Professor Mustang sat half-asleep at his desk, happily sated and completely content to never do anything but Professor Hawkeye ever again, the next class began to filter in, already whispering about how "Professor Hawkeye wore her collar awful high.." and "Breda said her voice wasn't actually scratchy from allergies either.."

It was perfect. _This_ was perfect. Term was almost out and he had finally gotten the girl he'd been chasing since Junior year. (Not to mention that he was handing out a test today and none of the little cretins knew it yet.)

"You look pretty happy today, Professor," one bright eyed student noted from the first row, voice carrying in the airy lecture hall. Roy just smirked and lazily stood, already reaching for the inconspicuous stack of tests. "Must be the sun, Miss Rockbell."

He maybe should have cleared his throat though, or perhaps indulged in some water during passing period because, instead of the usual drawl, his voice came out rough and undeniably worn. (Or as Havoc would put it "clearly sexed up")

"Wait," the boy beside her began, mental cogs visibly turning as he stared at his professor. "You're smirking, half asleep and sound like sand paper…" Golden eyes narrowed, and Roy took a step forward, already fearing the worst. "Elric.." If the boy shut up now, he wouldn't have to pa- "you got_ laid!" _The blonde twenty something explained, launching up to point at his Professor, aghast. "you _totally_ banged Professor Hawkeye! Jesus _Christ_ don't you have any human decency I can't _belie_-"

"I'm dropping your grade a letter, Elric."

"WHAT."

"You heard me, get back in your seat."

"But Professor!"

"Also we're having a test today, courtesy of Mr. Elric here."

"_NO!_"


	5. V

**notes: **chalk this up under the endless list of "things i wanted to be longer but was afraid to draw out"

* * *

At first, they think she is simply injured- that the Colonel's doting is only a reaction to the blow her shoulder took on the last assignment. That had to be it, the small ball of lead imbedded in her flesh had to be the reason for softness of Roy's eyes. Why else would the dark man so often press his hands to her hips, or let his eyes linger on the line of her jaw so long?

It never once crosses Falman, Bread, or even Fuhrey's mind that their dear Lieutenant might be pregnant. The tired smiles and frequent bathroom breaks escape them until, one almost-warm spring morning, they walk into a Riza-free office. "Where's the Lieutenant?" Breda asks through a mouthful of pastry, thick brows drawn up and together in what's either concern or a bad bite of breakfast. "Ill," Mustang offers from his desk, dark eyes focused on the papers spread across the rich wood grain. None of the men decide to comment on how ridiculous he looks with his hair sticking up in all directions and fire in his eyes as one scarred hand flies across a form.

"Ill?" The man pauses in his mastication long enough to muse, "she seemed just fine yesterday.." But the Colonel is lost in the shuffling of papers, lips pursed as he runs through some mental checklist.

"Sir, are you planning on leaving us to visit her?" This time it is Falman who raises his baritone, dry wit permeating every word. "Of course not!" Their Colonel exclaims, but the effect is lost as he steals a glance towards the clock. "That would be irresponsible _and_ unprofessional of me." The men burst into unabashed laughter, and Roy can only shake his head.

That very same laughter follows him all the way out of the building as he makes his escape, coattails whipping behind his stride.

* * *

But it's worth it when he quietly turns the knob to their little apartment, shedding uniform and ignition gloves to rumple on the floor as he inhales the scent of home. Riza is asleep in their bed, golden hair strewn about the sheets around her like a corona. It's like a punch to the gut, and the Flame Alchemist feels his breath rush away from him entirely as he hovers at the foot of the bed.

Reverently, he eases onto the mattress beside his queen, strong arms snaking over to pull her close. One hand cradles her abdomen, scarred flesh pressed to smooth skin and Roy can't help but wonder how they, two people with hands stained undeniably red, managed to create life. He presses a tender kiss against his lover's pulse, and smiles from ear to ear when she mumbles his name.


	6. VI

**notes**: a continuation of the last chapter, if you will.

**sweet baby jesus**: ghhhhhhh i don't even like babies and this had me all stupid melty while writing it yeeeeeee.

**prompt**: "Riza unexpectantly giving birth and the whole of Team Mustang is with her and freaking out and/or trying to calm Mustang down as he freaks out"

**ps**: pleaseeeee please please send me prompts to my tumblr, _hyperphonic_! i'd love to spin them into a story for you~

* * *

When the baby comes, Riza is leaning against his desk, round stomach unfettered by uniform blues as she hands him a manilla folder. "You missed these," she smiles, and Roy's heart lurches uncomfortably in its attempt to match the grin he returns. "We're falling into disarray without you!" He dark man teases, taking the folder with a brush of warm fingers (_that morning he had brushed those same fingers down her spine, standing in their sun-soaked little kitchen_). Around them Falman and Breda's laughter echoes off the walls while Fury shakes his head, glad to finally see their Superior free to smile at the blonde ("they should have known what they were getting into with the abolishment of the frat law!" Havoc had teased one hazy night).

"Well, Sir," The Lieutenant-on-Maternity-leave responded, conspiratorial grin very firmly in place, "perhaps you should have-" and then her eyes are widening, the hand halfway to his cheek diverting to press against her abdomen. "Roy." The break from title to name sends his heart into an overdrive so fierce he almost can't hear what she says next. "The baby is coming."

And then all he can hear is a steady mantra of _oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit, _which he thinks might be coming from his own mouth.

His men spring into action immediately, Fury rushing to hold the door open as Breda and Falman steady the blonde to rush out the door. "_Oh shit._" And this time Roy knows it's his voice.

* * *

The Medical Wing is just as sterile as Roy remembered, the cold scent of sanitation hangs in his nose and makes him think of immobile legs and wounds too quickly cauterized- until he's shoved (quite literally) into Riza's room, courtesy of Breda's meat mitts.

As the door swings shut behind him, Roy stumbles into the designated "husband chair" beside the bed and promptly begins to hyperventilate.

"Roy," Riza reminds from her spot beside him, golden hair mussed across the stiff sheets, "breathe." (The Flame Alchemist feels like he's forgotten how.)

"Jesus Christ, Mustang," Breda jeers from the other side of the not-quite-closed-door, "get your shit together." Riza reaches a little shakily for his hand, and Roy is quick to take it in his own, stroking over her knuckles slowly as he flips Breda the bird with his other appendage. "Your lips are turning blue," she jibes, but the effect is lost when a contraction rips across her abdomen.

The sight of the woman he loves gasping to breathe atop a too-sterile hospital bed pulls Roy back into the moment, and all at once his cool head is back. "You're one to talk," he pressed to her temple with a kiss, the hand formerly occupied with flipping Breda off now combing through her hair. Riza doesn't reply, but he feels her smile and that's enough to ease his heart.

* * *

It's all worth it though, when Riza gives a final cry and the room is filled with the shrill sound of their child. _Their child, _a little life made between two people with hands stained so red not a whole sea could clean them. One little life, one little spark to light the dark they'd help create.

"Shit," he breathes, and it sounds like a prayer.

"Yeah," Riza agrees, now propped against the pillows and cradling the softly cooing child in her strong arms. Team Hawkeye has crowded around the bed, the battle-trained men melting at the sight of the little boy. "We'll be back tomorrow," Fuery chimes, already beginning to coax the other two towards the door. "Havoc will want to swing by for sure." They're all grinning stupidly, because this is so different than what they're used to. The room is filled with new _life, _no grit, no blood, no smoke heavy with what's left of a person.

It can't be anything short of a miracle. Of that much Roy is sure as he sheds his coat and boots before crawling into bed beside the blonde. "You did it," he settles against the pillows and pulls Riza back and into his chest, hiding his nose against her neck. Her laugh is light and tired, and makes the infant whine with its jostle, "it takes two."

And he supposes it does, as one impossibly small hand curls around his finger. "He has your eyes," big and brown and so so bright. "And your hair," Riza melts back against him, a deep sigh pushing past her lips when he kisses along her shoulder. Silence falls warm and hazy across the dim little room, evening shadows slanting long across the floor.

Her suggestion doesn't break it, only hums underneath, the timbres matching just so. "Let's name him Maes."

Roy's never smiled so big.


	7. VII

**yo**: remember, it's not the length, but how you use it. (read: please, it's a little impolite to tell someone to lengthen their stories up. vignettes are vignettes for a reason.)

**also**: slightly sexual fun times ahead, friends!

* * *

Roy Mustang rises with the sun. Like clockwork, every morning the dark man will blink the sleep from his eyes and turn into the timid warmth growing at his back. It is rooted in his bones, maybe from the fight or die months of Ishval, or maybe because of the embers that glow in his stomach. Either way, it is very rare to find the Colonel asleep if the sun has already cleared Central's jagged skyline.

Rosy light slants soft against the sheets, and Roy is already awake- counting the barely-there freckles along his lover's shoulder as the sun warms his back. "How long have you been awake?" Her voice is rough with the night prior, and Roy can't help but press a kiss to the back of her neck as Riza languidly begins to stretch in his arms.

"Only a little while," lean arms arch high above their heads to bump fists against the headboard, and the dark man doesn't miss his chance to skate fingers down her arched spine.

"Yeah? What time is it?" His nose settles back in the hair beside her temple, strong arms wrapping snugly around her from as the stretch ends. "Something like five," he sighs, and the expulsion of hot breath against her skin send's Riza's blood fitfully racing. Thin palms slide against his own rough hands; fingers tangling overtop her stomach as they breathe. "I love you," Roy sighs, voice almost soft enough to be lost amongst the fine blonde hair his nose is hidden in.

Slowly, they shift until Riza is resting atop his chest, and Roy's head is cushioned against the pillows, all dark dark hair against crisp white sheets. Thin lips part as Riza prepares to answer, but the sun has gained a precious few more degrees in the sky, and Roy's face catches the golden light on the planes of his face (Riza can only dip her head to kiss his sun-stained lips).

One scarred hand cups the small of her back, all dry heat and gentle touches as he speaks, "I love you too," the Lieutenant manages to gasp between kisses; breath hitching has his hips press needily up against her stomach. Roy (now half sitting up in order to better access the blonde's mouth) wraps his arms around her and pulls until she's neatly arranged in his lap.

"Well good," his lips are blazing down across her throat and chest, laving love against her collarbones and calluses. "I'd be a little disappointed if you didn't." Riza grins, and the laugh that begins deep in her gut is lost in a rush of flame as Roy's lips find her breast.

His smirk is contagious. And soon Riza is tangling her fingers in her hair and guiding him lower, lips quirking when the unmistakable slide of his tongue meets the underside of one breast. "Careful, your face will freeze that way," her Colonel drawls as he pulls away, slightly chapped lips pulling into a crooked grin before falling on her own.

Together, they fall into a rhythm so practiced it is almost like breathing. His hips roll slowly, relishing as best he can in the fall of her hair and the way she feels around him (his heart beats at double time and Roy wonders if he'll ever stop feeling sixteen around her). The morning light gradually strengthens along with their pace until, spent, they lie against the crumpled sheets, legs tangled and sweat slowly cooling.

Roy Mustang rises with the sun, if only so he can have a precious few minutes to study the depth of his affection.


	8. VIII

**at rise**: the fourth ova fucked me up.

* * *

_"I am in blood. Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,. Returning were as tedious as go o'er."_

* * *

Roy is broken; a man with the blood of Ishval so deep under his nails that it starts to blend with his own. Starched white gloves serve to spark and serve to hide- if he can't see his hands he can pretend that he doesn't still hear the screams. It is, ultimately, an ineffective tactic, but it serves well enough while he plays the part of Colonel.

The second the spotlight fades though, it takes the act with it.

Riza knows this better than anyone else. She's the one who catches him when the weight of what he's done becomes crushing. It's her arms that curl around his shaking sides, her fingers that push the hair off his sweat soaked brow, and her lips that press affirmations of love into his skin. She's dug her fingers into his cracked façade and worked until it bowed (_now she runs her lips over the cracks in his soul, but Roy can tell that she doesn't intend to press_).

When they were nineteen and unaware of the horrors approaching, Maes had talked incessantly about what love felt like. He had waxed poetic about racing hearts and trembling fingers, practically sung the virtues of candle lit dinners and the way it felt to kiss her knuckles.

He had also hidden all his cracks (_"I will take what I have done here, swallow it up by myself, and when I am in front of her I will smile."_), sweetened his bloody hands with perfumes and swept about as if Ishval had been nothing but a terror in the night.

The Flame Alchemist cannot bring himself to do the same. To shed the horror and the bloodshed from his shoulders would only disrespect the people- only serve to make the almost-genocide even more vile in his veins.

His hands are so stained red that to scrub them clean would be to shed his skin.

So he endures (and does _not _revel, like that Kimblee bastard).

Because Roy _knows _that he is in love with his Lieutenant- but he also knows that theirs is not a love to wax poetic about. No, theirs is one of mutual support, a pair of metals too weak to stand alone forged together.

She is the one to soothe him when he wakes in the middle of the night with a mouth full of desert sand and a pierced pocket watch burning a hole in his heart. It's _her_ neck that he hides in and _her_ scent that chases are the smell of burnt skin.

Likewise he is the one to remind her of warmth when the perpetual cold of her firearms begins to seep into her skin. He dislodges it from her bones and kisses away what's left on her fingertips almost like a prayer.

When she is under Pride's eye it is his hand that flicks the lights off surreptitiously, and it is his lips that serve to pull the fear away- mirroring the slide of their uniforms as he burns to touch all of her. If his palms are burning bright against her skin she cannot fade, cannot lose herself to the shadow. He will be her light, because she has been his anchor for so long, and Equivalent Exchange is as real as the roll of their hips in the dark.

His bloodied hands trace the swell of her hips while her crimson palms cup his face and together they begin to heal.


End file.
